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Tuesday, March 27, 2007

There's a sweet horror to those lyrics. Those of us prone to depression know the darkness far too well. I have a tendency to personify mine, but for me it's not an old friend; it's more like a psycho ex that, despite my best efforts to avoid, nevertheless knocks on the door at 3 am. And I, like a fool, let it in, because while our relationship was shit, the sex was fantastic.

So I let it in, and I wallow in depression and self-pity for a good long time, because once you let your psycho ex into your apartment it takes an act of God to get him out again.

I'm not suicidal, but as a chronic depressive I can understand the allure. I'm not saying it's right, because it's not; by killing yourself all you've managed to do is hurt, in a very intimate way, the people who love you.

But I've thought about it. Oh, how I've thought about it; given the amount of time I spent thinking about it during the 90's I figure I've spent a year just considering the notion. There's an entire album that I simply cannot listen to again because I associate that music with those feelings.

That said, hopefully you won't get freaked when I start taking a little morbidly.

I don't fear death. I fear pain, and I feel loneliness, but I don't fear death, which is why I'm comfortable talking about it. There is a certain romance to the notion of choosing how and when and where you check out of this existence, and I strongly believe that owning that feeling is just as important as, say, making out your Will or purchasing a cemetery plot. Why is it, though, that this culture places such a stigma upon the former but not the latter? Indeed, making funeral preparations is considered adult and responsible. Why then is it considered bizarre to become comfortable with making similar emotional preparations?

Don't give me that crap about "Thinking about it means you're considering doing it." You and I both know that's broken logic, because if it were true you'd have slept with a hell of a lot more people.

Where am I going with this? I haven't a clue. It's 1:30 in the morning, my tendinitis is acting up, and I'm rambling. I'm depressed because I'm 34 with no relationship, no career, and I have to declare bankruptcy because of medical bills I cannot pay.

I think, maybe, I can sleep now. I guess I just needed to get the worry out on paper, rather than let it stew in my brain any longer.

Oh, one more thing: I realize I am a drama queen, but I'm not doing this for attention. Honestly, don't feel compelled to write me and let me know you love me and things will be okay and etc etc. In fact, unless you possess a burning need to write me, I ask that you don't.

This blog is my confessional at times, and like confession, sometimes things are said which, while they must be said, must not be brought up by anyone other than me. This is one of those times.

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